Hey Jenny
by Fubarmensch
Summary: A satireparodypastiche of the writing process, and maybe the high-school-romance-novel genre. Complete. Heavily based on a true story. Please review, yeah?
1. Chapter 1

Hey Jenny

A SatireParodyPastiche of the Writing Process in General, and Maybe Romance Novels

* * *

"_Hey, Jenny. Remember that story I was writing? The parody of those romance novels you like?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_What do you want the main characters to be named?"_

"_Uh… name the guy Sandra… and the girl Timothy."_

"_Okay—wait, what?"_

"_I think Timothy is a cute name for a girl. Sandra's… too mature for a cute girl."_

"_Uh, whatever. Alright then, suit yourself."_

_

* * *

_"Congratulations, it's a girl!" "Let's name her Timothy!"

* * *

"_Hey, Jenny. How old do you want them to be?"_

"_High school. I don't want them to be old."_

"_Alright."_

* * *

Seventeen Years Later

Timothy brushed her fluorescent pink and blue hair out of her eyes. Her right eye was red and her left eye was blue, which meant that she never needed those cardboard 3-D vision glasses. She was five and a half feet tall and, unbeknownst to her, she was one of the 1 in 400 people who have horseshoe kidneys. She sighed, picked up her textbooks, and prepared herself for the long trip down the hallway of her high school. "I wish I had a boyfriend," she thought. Right on cue, she ran into a boy, dropping her books all over the floor.

* * *

"_Hey, Jenny. Did you draw something today? Can I see?"_

"_Yeah. It's me!"_

"_Hmm, it looks nothing like you."_

"_It's me, if I were a boy. And blond. And had green eyes. And looked skinnier and younger. And didn't have glasses, and…"_

* * *

The boy was blond, with green eyes. For a brief moment, Timothy achieved eye contact with those captivating green eyes.

"Here, let me get that for you," said the boy.

"Oh god, this is such a cliché," said Timothy as the fourth wall shattered into a million pieces. "It's totally obvious that I'm going to end up with this guy at the end, anyway."

* * *

"_Hey, Jenny. How's this?"_

"_I dunno… the whole thing with a girl dropping her books is really overdone."_

"_Hey, you know what would make this even more cliché? If there's a rival of some kind."_

"_Okay, but I don't want two girls. I want two guys who want the same girl."_

"_Okay."_

* * *

Just then, another guy arrived on the scene.

* * *

"_Hey, Jenny. Look what I drew. It's a response to your drawing."_

"_Who is that?"_

"_It's a portrait of me, if I were a guy. Look, if I were a dude I'd wear sunglasses indoors like a douchebag, and…"_

* * *

"Hello, ladies," the new arrival said, brushing dust off his vest and surveying the scene over the rims of his sunglasses as though he were in a Kubrick film. "Need a hand? By the way, my name's Mullet. John Mullet."

"Oh my. How unexpected," Timothy said flatly. "I wonder who I'm going to choose."


	2. Chapter 2

_One Month Later_

_

* * *

"Hey, Jenny! Hey! You listening? Alright, so I have this ide-- hey! What are you doing? Hey! Pay attention! Look at me! Hey!"_

"…"

"_Never mind."_

_

* * *

_"So, uh, I get to pick up her books," said Boy with Green Eyes.

"No way, I totally called dibs. Just now. In my mind." John Mullet said.

"I- I was here first!"

"Your mom was here first."

"Your face."

"Your mom's face."

"I… okay, I forgot what comes after that. You win."

"Uh, guys?" Timothy said. "I already got all my stuff together while you were arguing."

"Hey," said John Mullet. "Do you mind dropping your stuff again so I can pick it up for you?"

"No thanks, I'm going to be late. Bye, b— oh wait! Boy with Green Eyes! What's your name?"

"…Sandra."

"…"

"…"

"I'm Timothy. Nice to meet you."

"Curses, foiled again," said John Mullet.

All that week, Timothy thought about Sandra. She didn't even really know him, and one could argue that this level of obsession was probably unhealthy or just plain creepy. But Timothy couldn't help it, because she lived in a romance novel and the metaphorical Red String of Fate compelled her.

"Ohmigawd," she thought. "He has nice eyes. They are shiny and relatively free of defects. He has nice eyes. He has very nice eyes. He possesses pleasant verdant orbs of shiny brightness."

She spent all her free time at school camping in the hallway where they had met, and trying to think of ways to ask him out. She realized that it was usually the guy who did the asking-out, but she would not stand for this because she was an Independent Female ™. Well, you'll have to take our word for it. But if she weren't a Strong Woman ™, feminists would kick my ass, so she is now.

After several weeks of utter boredom, she finally obtained a result. Sandra walked by and said hello.

"Hello," said Sandra.

"Blarg, arghuraugh," said Timothy. "Wargle mumble argyle blarglerwargh?"

Sandra either did not hear her, or was determined to ignore the mouth-foamingly rabid creature.

"Wargh." Timothy said sadly.

She spent another week in mental anguish. What could he mean? Why was he so incomprehensible? Why was _she_ so incomprehensible? What if he hated her? Oh no! What if he was just really good at mind games? What if they finally got around to making out, and she discovered that his breath smelled like raw sewage? C'est très dramatique!

* * *

"_Hey Jenny! What's the matter with you? Are you sick or something?" _

"…_.No…"_

"_Can you tell me what you think of this crap I wrote?"_

"…_I dunno."_

"_Uh, do you have any new ideas for me?"_

"_I duuno."_

"_Do you—"_

"_Stop asking me stuff, I told you I don't know…"_

"…"


	3. Chapter 3

Another Month Later

'Twas the week before Prom Night and all through the school, people were trying and failing to look cool. Ahem. Rather poorly-made posters went up overnight, and Sandra was having an unnecessarily large amount of angst over Timothy. Should he ask her to the Prom? Of course, the answer was yes, but he had to have a bunch of internal conflict anyway. It was a requirement of the genre.

He had been avoiding Timothy in an attempt to not seem creepy. What if she genuinely thought he hated her? He decided that if he was going to ask her to the Prom, he had to do it now, before John Mullet called dibs on her. Again.

Meanwhile, John Mullet was busy making out with his own biceps. "I'm awesome," he said to nobody in particular. "Timothy? Who's that?" he added, for no reason.

Sandra knew it was time for _action_, so as soon as class was dismissed, he put on his _action delinquent_ clothes and went to buy some roses for Timothy. Actually, being in his _action delinquent mindset_, he did not buy them, but rather stole them from his neighbor's front yard.

Then he contracted pulmonary sporotrichosis from the roses, developed tuberculosis, and died. Just kidding. But seriously, children, don't steal from your neighbors or the Tuberculosis Monster will take you away.

Sandra ran back to school, hoping that he could find Timothy before she left. And, luckily, he found her, still waiting in the hallway where they had first met.

"Oh," Sandra said. "Hi."

"?!" Timothy said.

"I, uh, would you like to go to the promenade with me?"

"What?"

"You. Me. Prom."

"Oh my god. Yes."

They stared at each other while light piano music played in the background.

"Okay then. Uh. See you there?"

"Yes."

They walked their separate ways while the dangerous levels of awkwardness slowly dissipated.

"Aww crap, I forgot to give her the flowers."

* * *

Timothy stepped into the banquet hall, her prom dress flowing behind her. It was a not-tacky-at-all blue and pink. It was made of taffeta, had slits at the sides, and was studded with rhinestones that were actually diamonds. She was a size zero with a cup size of 34DD. Her elegant strapless gown dragged across the ground, yet never accumulated any dirt. The midriff was encrusted with gold and rubies. Her— BANG.

We now return to our previously scheduled programming.

Timothy joined Sandra at a table. They stared longingly into each other's eyes again for so long that, if this were a movie, this scene would be a good time to take a bathroom break.

Sandra waited until everyone had finished washing their hands properly and were back in their seats. Then he broke the silence.

"I saved these roses for you," he said, pulling out the wilted bouquet he had forgotten to give her. "They, uh, symbolize our love," he added, as one rose fell right off the stem and another one simply crumbled into dust.

"Oh, severed plant genitalia. How symbolic!" Timothy said.

"Shall we dance?" asked Sandra.

"Oh my, yes."

She tossed the aged bouquet behind her, where it broke apart upon impact, shriveled into nothingness, and ceased to exist.

"Uh," said Sandra, leading her onto the dance floor. " Je t'aime. Te amo. Aishiteru. Ich liebe dich. Iay ovlay ouyay. I love you."

"…I love you too."

"This would be a good time to make out."

"Sure, whatever."

* * *

"…_What is it, Jenny?"_

"_I don't like it when they make out. I don't like sex either. It's too romantic."_

"_Uh… okay, so what do you like? Should I just have them, what, hold hands or something?"_

"_Even that makes me feel weird."_

"…"

"_I don't like it. It makes me want to scream. It's good but it's bad."_

"…_Okay, so why do you like romance novels again?"_

"_I like romance but I don't like when it's too romantic."_

"_Okay, okay. So I wrote this story for you an—"_

"_You didn't have to."_

"_Well, I wanted to."_

"_I said you didn't have to and now you're complaining."_

"_Okay, but do you have any other ideas?"_

"_I told you, I don't know!"_

"_Listen, so how should I end the story?"_

"_I. Don't. Know!"_

"_Alright, sorry, I'll come up with something myself. But, you know, it's kinda hard. I don't even read romance novels. Too many… feelings."_

"_Then why are you making fun of what I like?"_

"…"

"…"

"_Um. So, uh, yeah, it's hard for me to come up with stuff, that's why I have to ask you."_

"_I don't kn—"_

"_I wasn't even going to ask you! You never have any ideas anyway, you retarded—"_

"_What? What did you call me? You think you're better than me just because I'm in Special Ed?"_

"_Wait. You're in Special Ed? I never knew! Oh god, I'm sorry. This suddenly makes it Not Okay. Accept my apology, will ya?" __And I gave her a thumbs-up and an overly violent Smack of Consolation on the back._

"_That hurt!"_

"_Well, weakling, I'm surprised you can feel anything at all, lardass! Man up!"_

"_What? I'm stronger than you. I'm going to beat you up, and then it's going to be you who… is… suffering."_

"_What the hell? Did you just threaten me?"_

"_Yes. I'm going to make you understand my pain."_

"_You'll have to catch me first, fatass.__"_

"_No. I'm leaving."_

"_Coward!"_

* * *

_A Few Minutes Later._

"_Hey, Jenny. Hey, Jenny's psychologist. Wassup?"_

"_Have a seat. You are charged with foul language, excessive cruelty to your own friends, and being an asshole."_

"_I—"_

"_Don't talk back to me. Jenny has been coming to me every day for the past four months, complaining about how mean you were!"_

"_Four months? But I didn't even start insulting her until a few minutes ago! Jenny? Is this true? Were you—"_

"_Don't talk to Jenny, you little shit."_

"_Real friends stab you in the front, Jenny."_

"_Shut up."_

"…"

"_Good job, dumbass. That wasn't so hard, was it? Ahem. You are hereby sentenced to one year of not talking to Jenny."_

"_Okay."_

"_Stop talking! Okay. You are not to talk to her, look at her, call her, send her text messages, or contact her on the internet until next year."_

"_But can I show her the story I—"_

"_Next year, assclown!"_

...And that's why I wrote this story. It is up to the reader to decide whether I should be stoned to death or buried alive.


End file.
